


While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

by derevko_child



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: In the end, it boiled down to a single choice.Or rather: it boiled down to a split second where a slight hesitation on his part led to an impulsive decision on Fury’s end.Coulson lives.





	While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Neruda's poem, 'Every Day You Play'
> 
> Apologies in advance for any mistakes in grammar. Or if I hurt your feelings.

In the end, it boiled down to a single choice. 

Or rather: it boiled down to a split second where a slight hesitation on his part led to an impulsive decision on Fury’s end.

Maybe in some other universe, he marched on without question—he was nearest the detention area, anyway, and he was pretty confident that SHIELD has something big and shiny to slow down a so-called god. Maybe in some other universe, he got there two minutes earlier and he was able to distract that greasy-haired alien prince long enough until reinforcements arrived.

Maybe in some other universe, he was the one who burst in that room without back-up, silently praying to whichever higher being that watches over foolish idiots like him for protection, hoping that the biggest gun he took from the armory will hurt an Asgardian despite not knowing what it does, exactly.

Maybe, in some other universe, they’re both dead.

Maybe in some other universe, they both managed to live through it.

But in this universe, he hesitated.

In this one, he was two minutes too late.

In this universe, he tried to save her, even when he knew at a glance that she wasn’t going to make it.

In this universe, Phillip Coulson lives. 

Maria Hill dies instead.

* * *

He stands half a step behind Fury’s left side, staring at the spot above Captain Rogers’ head. His hands are clasped behind his back—there was no time to change and Hill’s blood is still on his hands, on his clothes.

(but mostly it’s to hide the fact that his hands are still shaking)

He can feel two pairs of eyes watching him as he half-listens to Fury’s speech about heroes and saving the world.

“…to fight the battles we never could.”

His gaze drops to Stark, who meets him in the eye before quickly looking away.

“Agent Hill died still believing in that idea.”

The tension in the room doesn’t ease after everybody left.

Fury shakes his head as he walks towards his station in the middle of the helicarrier. And without any word from the man, Phil follows him.

(dutifully, like he’s always been)

He stands beside the Director, who doesn’t say anything, and he relegates himself to watching the clouds, painfully aware of all the chaos around them. 

“She thought the Avengers Initiative was going to fail.” Phil quietly points out when all the noise made it seem like it was safe to say the truth out loud.

It was an opinion on the record. Hill thought that this kind of team cannot come into a fight untested. It was a disastrous line-up, she said, especially with Stark involved. 

She thought it could get someone killed.

“They need a push.”

The heaviness in his chest weighs him down, but he doesn’t move. He’s not a stranger to losses in the field; he’s lost agents due to faulty intel, trainees to freak accidents, and assets to deplorable luck. He’s lost people because everything went wrong, something went wrong, nothing went wrong.

He always soldiered on; he mourns in private, but he always, _always_ soldiered on. The only way to make it right is if he _makes_ it right; if SHIELD makes it right.

The end of Fury’s speech – that Hill _believed_ in this team – that end was supposed to be a gut-punch, a statement that should _spur_ action. But when he watched Rogers and Stark leave, he has a very strong feeling that Fury’s speech didn’t have the impact he wanted.

“It’s not going to work.” He says, softly, staring into the distance.

And he knows Fury well enough that he doesn’t have to look at him to be aware that he’s shooting daggers at him.

The team doesn’t know Hill, not the way he knows her. But they know him. And if Hill’s death won’t get them to work together, maybe he can.

Maybe.

“Would’ve been easier if it had been me, huh, Boss?” He says with a grim smile.

Fury doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns towards him, his only eye narrowing in disapproval.

Phil looks straight ahead and shrugs.

“I know that look.” Fury finally says, and almost too nonchalantly, “That’s a look you get when you’ve decided you’re going to do something stupid.”

“My stupid ideas work.”

Fury snorts. “Half the time.”

He’s alive for a reason and he’s decided that he’s not going to waste it by standing around and feeling regret, going through what-if situations when he can do _something_. Hill deserves more than that. 

Hill deserves better than that.

“I’ll take my chances.” He says before turning around to stride out of the command center.

“Where are you going, Agent Coulson?”

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even look back.

“Coulson!” Fury calls out, “I’ve already lost my right hand,” His voice bellowing for everyone to hear, “Don’t make me lose my good eye.”

Phil presses the button underneath the facial sensors and the doors slide open. The harsh sound of metal being repaired blasts its way into the room.

“Agent Coulson!”

He stops this time, letting out a deep breath before turning to look at the Director of SHIELD. He sees everyone has stopped doing whatever it is they’re doing and is now staring at him.

And from where he’s standing, the destruction that surrounds everybody appears even more foreboding.

He makes a show out of gesturing towards his coat and his shirt, stretching his arms to display the blood that was starting to crust over the fabric.

(His coat just came back from the cleaners; the shirt, a gift from Audrey. 

Both ruined.)

“I need to change out of my clothes.” He says with fake earnestness that could fool mostly everybody except two people.

He doesn’t give Fury a chance to reply before walking out. 

After all, the man who gives Fury his plausible deniability before the World Security Council should have the last word.

* * *

“Did she have… someone? A husband?” Rogers asks.

Phil doesn’t look at him—at least not at first. He takes in the sight of hole in the wall, which seems much more massive than it did a while ago and notes the efficiency of the clean-up crew.

“No.” Not that he knows of, anyway. He looks at Rogers, “SHIELD took up most of her time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Phil stares at him. His unabashed love for all things Captain America had been a source of jokes in the academy, and while the jokes went away when he started outperforming everyone in class and then slowly climbing up the ranks, his hero-worship of Steve Rogers never faded.

But he never thought he’ll ever meet him or have a chance to work with him, much less receive words of condolence from him.

“She attended the only class I taught in the academy.” He says as he starts walking towards him, “Assigned to most of my ops after she graduated until Fury decided to mentor her.”

A nod. “Fury’s right hand.”

He hears the distrust in the other man’s tone and he doesn’t fault him for it. 

“Hill is…” he stops, remembering where Hill is, “Hill was… she was a good agent.”

He stands in front of Rogers, still in his blood-encrusted suit, and allows himself to look at his hero for what he truly is.

Human.

(because it’s unfair to heap all his expectations on someone who had just woken up from a seventy-year slumber after choosing to sacrifice his life to save the world)

He can see guilt in Rogers’ face—not enough for him to act on his own but it’s enough for Phil to work on.

“She’s done her job. Now I have to do mine.” He says pointedly and turns to walk away.

(it’s a move that works ninety-percent of the time)

“You’ll have to find Loki first.”

He glances back at Rogers. “He’s a smug bastard with a penchant for theatrics. I have an idea where he might be.”

“Then what? Fight him on your own?”

“Hopefully? No.” There’s voice in his head telling him to stop being an idiot and just ask him to be part of his half-baked plan instead of trying to manipulate him. “I’m a big proponent of teamwork, Captain, but as it stands, there isn’t one.”

Rogers doesn’t say anything. He gives the man a small, resigned smile.

“It’s an honor to have worked with you, Captain Rogers.”

* * *

He finds Romanoff and Barton in the infirmary and tells them of his ill-conceived idea of tracking Loki down.

(There is a very high probability that he’s going to be in New York, where the towering skyscrapers appeal to his ego. If he stays on top, people will have no choice but to look up to see him)

Rogers arrives six minutes later.

“Can either of you fly one of those jets?”

He and Romanoff look at each other. The first person that immediately came to his mind can’t be found in the helicarrier; she’s walled herself behind a desk in the Triskelion.

The bathroom’s metal door scrapes against the floor as it opens. 

“I can.” Barton says as he steps out, wiping his hands on a washcloth.

Rogers looks at Romanoff, who nods her head in approval and he does the same when Rogers turns to him.

“You got a suit?” he asks, addressing Barton.

“Yeah.”

“Then suit up.”

* * *

There was a hole in the sky and there were… things spilling out, free-falling like insects dropping from trees during a hot summer’s day, before flying out in all directions.

And the hole is getting bigger.

“That looks bad.” He hears Barton say beside him.

A giant slug emerges from the hole in the sky, leaving a trail of crushed concrete in its wake.

“Okay, that looks worse.” Barton says, slacked-jawed, and Phil finds himself tightly gripping the Destroyer gun under his arms as they all watch the alien slug float above their heads 

The piercing sound of glass simultaneously breaking interspersed with screaming tells them it has other uses.

“No. Worst.”

“Stark, are you seeing this?”

He looks around trying to quickly take in what’s happening. The air is pungent with smoke, the street is rumbling underneath their feet and people are running everywhere.

 _“See, yes. Still working on believing.”_ Stark’s voice rings clearly in their comms.

New Mexico was not a glimpse of an alien invasion. It doesn’t hold a candle to this.

(The incident in Puente Antiguo was an assassination attempt by a cowardly prince who likes everything to be a performance. This… this is the real deal.)

_“Just keep me posted.”_

Puente Antiguo had a population of a hundred and fifty. New York City has at least 8 million people.

He turns towards Rogers, “People need to be off the streets _now_.” He shouts amidst the noise, “Aliens are up, everyone within the area of Stark Tower needs to go—”

A series of large explosions to their right interrupts him and they all dive for cover. Everything shakes, and the terrified screams get louder.

His eyes start to water from the dust and he can hear his blood pounding in his head. He keeps his finger off the trigger of the Destroyer gun, but it suddenly feels much lighter than it did before.

Something whizzes past his face, and he instinctively rolls away, taking cover behind an upturned cab. He revs up the gun before getting back up to his feet, aiming at the aliens heading their way. At the corner of his eye, he can see people trapped inside a bus.

He shifts his aim and shoots at the aliens going towards it. The blast gets at least five of them.

(If – _when_ , the voice inside his head presses firmly – _when_ he gets out of this alive, he’ll need to send a thank you letter to the science division for the non-existent recoil)

The gun isn’t lethal, but it packs enough punch to blast the aliens several feet away and knock them out. He aims it on another group of aliens coming closer to them and knocks out four.

“We got this.” He hears Romanoff say, “It’s good. Go.”

“Can you hold them off without Agent Coulson?”

He ducks behind the cab again and turns around to see Romanoff and Barton look at each other before shrugging.

“Captain,” Barton says with a smile on his face, readying his bow, “it will be our genuine pleasure.”

Rogers looks at him and without the need to say a word, Phil follows him as he sprints towards the other direction, ducking for cover when needed.

He makes a mental note to recharge the gun after eight shots as he slides behind a Mercedes that crashed into the cement railing. He aims the gun upwards, knocking out the enemies in flight, guarding Rogers’ back as the man charges head on towards the chaos.

“How effective are guns on these guys?” he asks into the comms as he checks the service weapon on his holster while the Destroyer gun starts to charge up

“ _Very._ ” Was Romanoff’s only reply.

He directs every civilian he encounters with simple instructions – keep calm, stay off the street, head straight to a police officer – and shoots down the aliens scaling down the buildings as they scatter away.

In his comms, he can hear Barton and Romanoff do the same.

He alternates between the Destroyer gun and his ordinary one, trying to clear the streets of the extra-terrestrial menace while explosions around him go off one right after the other. And when his ordinary gun ran out of bullets, he picked up the aliens’ weapon and used it against them.

“ _Well… we got his attention. Uh… what the hell’s step two?_ ”

He shoots his way back to Romanoff and Barton’s position and is just in time to see large bolts of lightning taking down a horde of aliens.

“The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable.” Thor immediately reports after landing, his red cape billowing in the wind.

He stands next to Barton, who’s checking his arrows. He glances around before looking up. There’s a mechanical whirr that comes with these things. And he can hear them getting louder.

More are coming.

“How do we do this?” Romanoff asks Rogers.

Rogers looks around—looks at _them_ , with a resolute look on his face.

“As a team.”

This battle is far from over.

* * *

He’s just a bureaucrat wearing a Kevlar vest over a ruined suit and holding a big gun, in between two master assassins, surrounded by a god, a super soldier, a green rage monster and a flying weapon.

He’s way, _way_ over his head.

(At the back of his mind, a soothing voice tells him that yeah, sometimes he’s an idiot but he’s going to be _fine_.)

* * *

The deep cut on his forehead is making his face tingle in pain, and his ears are ringing but he stays still behind the wheel of the truck. The Destroyer gun is in its last charge – it’s still a prototype, after all – and he’s down to his last shot.

He and Rogers separated to cover more ground when Barton told them about cornered civilians. He was leading a mother and daughter to safety when an explosion slams him onto an abandoned delivery truck. 

Fury’s voice crackles in his ear, “ _Coulson, there’s an incoming nuke headed to the city. ETA in two minutes. Stark already knows._ ”

He tries to catch his breath and he’s starting to feel the pain on his back and his shoulders. The footsteps of the alien army resound on the street.

“Romanoff, do you copy? What’s your status?” he whispers, ignoring the pain as he slowly goes to a kneeling position.

“ _Dr. Selvig placed a failsafe in the machine._ ”

“Make it fast, they’re nuking us.”

He sneaks a look around the corner of the truck and finds seven alien scouts, marching towards his position. He moves quickly to the other side, not wanting a clash. Not when he only has one shot left.

_“I think I can close it. Does anyone copy?”_

_“Do it.”_

_“No, wait.”_

_“Stark—”_

_“I have the nuke and I know where it needs to go.”_

He listens to the team as he tries to move as fast as his aching body can. He’s starting to feel the weight of the gun in his arms but if this sacrifice play by Stark doesn’t work, they have to continue fighting.

Phil rounds the corner of the van and comes face to face with seven alien scouts, a different group from the one he was trying to avoid.

Despite all the years of training, all the years in the field, and all the years he spent teaching his trainees, he did the one thing they said he shouldn’t do.

He freezes.

(They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. It doesn’t apply to him – not yet, he’s not dying. Soon, maybe? – but right now, all he can think about is if he gets another chance, he’s going to make things right… no, he’s going to _force_ things into being right)

They aim their weapons at him and he closes his eyes because he doesn’t want _aliens_ to be the last thing he sees before he dies.

(Her smile, a rare sight nowadays, the one she gave him last Tuesday, when he gave her tea… that’s the last thing he wants to see before he dies.)

He waits.

(Oh god, he’s going to die)

But nothing happens.

He counts up to three, just in case, before opening one of his eyes to check and finds all seven of them on the ground…dead?

A quick glance around tells him that the situation has been neutralized. But when he looks up, he sees the portal still wide open.

Streaks of yellow emanate from hole in the sky and it needs to be closed soon or the effect of the nuclear explosion will reach Earth too. But he knows why they’re keeping it open until the last minute.

“ _Close it._ ”

Phil watches, transfixed, as the tesseract powers down and the bright blue light disappears from the horizon.

Just as the portal closes, something slips through the tear.

Stark. 

Who’s falling way too fast.

His instincts kick in and he’s about to bark an order when a large green figure shoots upwards, clambering up the buildings to catch Stark midair. The ground shakes when they fall to the ground. 

And then, a roar.

“ _What the hell? What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me._ ”

At that moment, Phil knew that this battle has been won. 

It takes him a few seconds, but he allows himself to relax; to let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding off his chest, and he sits down on the curb before setting down the Destroyer gun by his feet.

It’s done.

“ _We’re not finished yet._ ”

Or maybe not.

“ _And then shawarma after?_ ”

* * *

He likes to say a quip or two after a particularly satisfying win, whether it be against the human smuggler who got caught after getting kicked in the head by a mind-controlled kangaroo, or against CAFanBoy0001 after outbidding him on that vintage Captain America lunchbox on eBay.

But he finds that he doesn’t need to say anything right now, not when he still has one shot left in the Destroyer gun which is pointed directly at Loki’s face.

Sometimes, the win is a statement in itself.

And this win is for Maria Hill.

* * *

“I know I call you a suit every now and then, but I cannot believe you wore a suit and a tie to fight against an alien invasion.” Stark looks at him from head to foot, “How are those shoes still intact?”

Phil shrugs, “They’re SHIELD-graded.”

The other man looks at him incredulously, as though he doesn’t quite believe that SHIELD would go to the extent of evaluating ordinary clothing for their agents if ever they need to be combat-ready.

(They do)

For a split second, a haunted expression appears on the Stark’s face, remembering why the stuffy bureaucrat from SHIELD jumped into a battle that was only theoretical a year ago, literally wearing just a suit. But it quickly disappears, replaced by a lopsided, blusterous grin.

The troubled look doesn’t disappear from his eyes.

“You did good, Stark.” He says, reaching out to lay a steady hand on the other man’s shoulder. Stark hasn’t experienced loss— not to the extent of loss experienced by spies and soldiers. This is an all-new territory for him to wade in. “Don’t ever doubt it.”

The bravado falters, just a little bit, but the grin comes back on again.

Stark slings his arm around his shoulder, “Tell you what, if you tell me what SHIELD-graded means—quality-wise, I’ll have SI’s R&D cook you up with a better ensemble.” He says, “You’ll have to coordinate with Pepper regarding the cut and colors, though.”

“That’ll need Director Fury’s clearance.”

Stark gives him a playful slap on the back, “Great. You’ll have it by the end of the week.” He then moves away from him, walking backwards as he calls on the rest of the team who’s starting to stream in behind them, “C’mon people, that shawarma won’t wait forever!”

* * *

Stark’s shawarma party didn’t last long, at least not for him. SHIELD clean-up came in after an hour to pick him up bringing him straight to the Triskelion.

Yes, the battle in New York was hell.

But the SHIELD debrief was raging inferno.

* * *

At half-past midnight, he manages to slip away from the debrief. He changes clothes before he leaves, putting his ruined clothes away in a plastic bag and stuffing them at the bottom of his locker.

(the fate of his clothes is a problem for another day)

He walks out of the HQ, paying no attention to the stares he was starting to get. He stops for a second, gripping the umbrella he had absent-mindedly picked up from his locker, and stands still.

The air is crisp; the summer breeze, cool on his skin. The ground isn’t shuddering, and the buildings don’t sound like they’re going to start crumbling any time. The are no terrified screams; only the gentle rush of the Potomac river punctuating the tranquility of the night.

(They told him the alien siege lasted for thirty minutes. 

For him it felt like an eternity.)

He starts to walk, aimlessly, taking in the sights and the sounds; the normalcy of it all. Tomorrow is going to be different. The Avengers – and in a way, SHIELD – is now out in the open. It will be naïve to say that only New York will feel the effects of the attempted alien invasion.

Fury might even call it the start of a new era.

He goes to wherever his feet will take him and twenty blocks later, he finds himself in front of a familiar six-story apartment building.

(maybe his walk wasn’t that aimless after all)

It’s late and she’s probably asleep, but he walks on, taking the stairs to the third floor and noiselessly makes his way to the end of the hallway.

He raps on the door thrice, telling himself that he’ll leave if she doesn’t open it in three minutes.

The door cracks open after two. 

He catches the annoyed expression on her face which turns into surprise and then into relief, just at the sight of him. 

“Hi.” He softly greets. His voice is hoarse, and his throat hurts from shouting orders, from answering questions, but he feels the need to say something to her.

She doesn’t greet him back. Melinda May isn’t much of a talker, even before, and she’s also not a big fan of showing too much emotions. But there’s a shift in her posture and her shoulders eases, and she’s been his friend for so long that he knows his presence is welcome.

But he doesn’t move, afraid that if he closes the gap between them, the last of his strength – the one that got him through the attack in the helicarrier, throughout the battle in New York, throughout that awful debrief – would leave him.

She opens the door wider and steps behind it, an invitation for him to come in without needing to say anything.

Her apartment is cozy and the moment she closes the door behind him, he becomes aware of just how quiet it is inside.

She leads him towards the living room before disappearing in the kitchen.

Melinda’s apartment is a cocoon of silence, a gentle reprieve for him and his ears. He didn’t know how much he needed quiet – her kind of quiet – until he came here.

“Phil?”

He turns around and sees her approaching him but stops just at an arm’s length away, giving him some space. He’s also aware that she’s scrutinizing him, trying to figure out what kind of support he needs right now.

(Because superhumans, they know how to handle. An alien invasion? There’s no manual for that)

He tries to smile—for her mostly, because she looks so worried. But it probably doesn’t look anything like a smile because the crease in her brows deepens.

“Phil.” She says his name again, louder this time.

He blinks. “I’m fine.”

Melinda reaches out to him to cover his right hand with hers, holding it for a second before attempting to gently pry his fingers off the umbrella he hadn’t realized he’s still carrying.

“Phil, look at me.” She says, trying to meet his gaze.

He looks at her. The concern on her face is so palpable, that it makes his heart ache. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

“I need you to breathe, okay?” she tells him and rests her right hand on his chest. The warmth of her hand seeps through his shirt.

He gives her a puzzled glance. He’s already breathing, what does she mean?

“Breathe with me. Please?”

This time, he nods his head, and focuses all his attention on her, mimicking her as she inhales and exhales deeply.

She manages to extract the umbrella from his grip but he isn’t ready – not yet – and he holds the hand on his chest, clutching on to her like she’s the only thing that can anchor him from the wave that he knows is about to come.

He doesn’t know how hard he’s gripping her hand, but pain doesn’t seem to register on her face.

(But then, she’s always been very good at hiding her pain)

“Just breathe, Phil.” She says and squeezes his hand back.

He feels something break in his chest.

A sharp breath escapes him and everything he’s been holding in – grief, anger, pain, fear, and guilt – finds their way out, scraping against his lungs like jagged, little stones.

God, it hurts.

Something stings in his eyes and his body starts to shake. Melinda gently guides him to the sofa and makes him sit before his knees give out.

She sits by his right side, wrapping her left arm around him and holds him against her. He doesn’t let go of her hand.

“Maria…” he says, his voice hollow, “Maria’s—”

“—I know.” She whispers, saving him from saying it out loud.

(he wasn’t the only one who trained her)

He leans on to her and shuts his eyes as he remembers the sight of Maria, her chest bleeding, sitting against the wall. Maria, who had the temerity to smile at him while his hands got soaked in her blood as he tried to stop the bleeding.

It could have easily been him. 

It should have been him.

(and yet a while ago, all he can think about was surviving)

Melinda tightens her arm around him as though she can hear his thoughts and he shifts, letting go of her hand so he can hold on to her, burying his face on her shoulder as his tears start to fall.

She kneads his back as he weeps – for Maria, for the guilt that he feels, and for fear that’s still in his system – and she murmurs to him soothingly, her voice too low for him to understand what she’s saying.

Melinda lets him cry; allows him to invade her space and allows him to use the steady beat of her heart to make him feel safe.

He stays in her arms even after the tears have long gone. Her hold on him never weakens.

When he glances up to look at her, he finds Melinda watching him tenderly with an unguarded expression on her face. He hasn’t seen that kind of openness from her for a long time.

“Hi.” He says, again, because it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say to her at the moment.

The corner of her lips quirks up to an almost smile and she gently touches his forehead, lightly tracing the edge of the bandage on top of his wound.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” She quietly says after a while.

How does he tell her that it was her voice that calmed him amidst the rubble and all the screaming, when panic started to bubble in his chest? How does he tell her that it was her voice that assured him when he thought he wasn’t enough? That when he thought he was going to die, he closed his eyes and thought of her?

“ _You_ kept me alive.”

A questioning look unfolds across her features.

Phil cups her cheek and kisses her. 

It’s tentative at first, because he’s aware of the line he just crossed, of the boundary he’s trying to erase. There are consequences to this – massive, painful consequences – but he just went through hell and she pulled him out of it. 

And she surprises him by kissing him back.

She melts in his arms as she yields to him, parting her lips as he flicks his tongue to taste her.

(her lips are soft and hot, and she tastes like tea and apple. 

He wants more)

He threads his fingers through her hair as he leans in deeper, kissing her with a desperate ache that only she can ease from him. 

She responds to him with equal fervor, and she draws him closer to her, clutching his arm with one arm while the other finds its way at the back of his neck.

Her teeth nips his bottom lip, shooting a jolt of pleasure in his spine. 

They only part when they’re gasping for breath, but he keeps her close, resting his forehead on hers, taking in the heat of her skin and the faint scent of citrus in her hair. 

He closes his eyes as he breathes with her, their shoulders rising and falling in perfect synchronization. He lifts his hand and traces her jawline with his thumb, memorizing the angles of her face with his skin. 

He could stay like this with her forever— if she lets him. 

But then she pulls away from him with a sigh, and the squeeze she gives his arm feels so final.

“We can’t do this.” 

She averts her gaze from him as she folds her hands on top of her lap and his chest tightens.

(massive, painful consequences)

“Why?” he manages to croak out.

He sees her blink and her jaw clenches. But when she turns her head to look at him, all he can see is sorrow.

“Because I’m not Audrey.”

The sharp breath he takes is like a knife to his lung.

She hasn’t left his side, not yet, but he knows that he can’t reach out to touch her – she’s not going to let him touch her – even when he desperately wants to.

Melinda stands up, “You should get some rest.” She tells him, looking right through him, “The spare bedroom—”

“—I’m fine here.” He interjects, a little too hastily. “Thank you.”

She nods, “There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.” She says before moving away, “I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”

He isn’t given a chance to dwell on what just happened for too long because she emerges back from her room after a few minutes, holding a pillow on top of a neatly folded fleece blanket.

She expertly hands it to him, their fingers barely touching.

“Good night, Phil.”

He looks up at her and sees a stoic mask looking back at him.

“Good night, Melinda.”

* * *

He wakes up to the littlest sound, despite Melinda moving as quietly as possible in her own apartment.

(The very first time he woke up, it was in panic, forgetting where he is. But seeing the cat-shaped clock on display in one of the shelves made him remember where he was.)

Phil drags himself off the couch and shuffles towards the source of the noise and finds her behind the kitchen counter making tea for breakfast.

“You’re up.” She says, barely glancing at him.

“Adrenaline kicked back in.”

This time, she looks at him and the downturn of her lips tells him she’s worried.

He shrugs and walks towards the counter and takes a seat.

“I made scrambled eggs, but I think they’re a little salty.” She says and puts the plate in front of him, “Does coffee have an expiration date?”

He looks down on the plate and finds a fluffy-looking scrambled egg. But then, saltiness can’t be determined by sight. As for the coffee, “If you placed it in a sealed container, it’s good for at least nine months.” He says, remembering that she keeps a bag of ground beans in the kitchen even though she doesn’t drink coffee.

She doesn’t say anything else and turns around, reaching up to open the kitchen cabinet.

He starts eating as she rummages for the coffee beans in the cupboard. Maybe he’s just really hungry because the scrambled eggs don’t seem to be too salty for him.

“Look, about last night…” he trails off and he sees her posture stiffen.

“We don’t have to talk about last night.” She says, turning around to face him, “You were exhausted and confused.” She continues, “You stood side by side with the Avengers, you fought the aliens and you survived—”

“—barely.”

“You _survived_.” Melinda stresses, “And hopefully, happy to be alive.”

She looks at him and her face is so inscrutable that he doesn’t know what to say. 

But at the same time, he recognizes that she’s giving him a way out. Yes, it was exhaustion. Yes, it was confusion. And yes, he’s happy to be alive. Say yes to all and the incident last night will be written off, forgotten. They can keep their boundaries as they are.

Phil looks at her and he can see traces of anxiety as she waits for his answer. And he understands that she doesn’t want their boundaries to be redrawn because the last time they had to do it, it hurt like hell.

“I am.” He says, taking the way out, “Maybe a bit traumatized, but I got another day out of it. So… yes. Happy.”

His lips still burn from their kiss and a part of him wants to stand up and go to her, to kiss her again because maybe (just maybe) another one could quell it.

But he likes what they have right now; it doesn’t need to have more.

He doesn’t need to have more.

(He wants to tell her that it wasn’t exhaustion or confusion or happiness. It’s guilt; it’s realizations in his life that he’s not ready to share with anyone at the moment.

It’s realizations he’s not ready to face at the moment.)

Phil smiles at her instead.

Coward.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. Sort of. Comments are <3


End file.
